Pain is an indication that something is wrong
by Guinevere81
Summary: When John starts to limp again Sherock can not cure him because this time it is not psychosomatic, no matter how much John may believe it is. Warning for serious illness.
1. Chapter 1

It had started with a limp in the morning. John would scowl at Sherlock when he mentioned it and snapped that just because it was psychosomatic didn't mean it didn't hurt. He looked more tired these days and it was not hard for Sherlock to deduce that the pain was keeping his friend awake at night. He had not heard him yelling in his sleep much lately either.

It spurred Sherlock on to work harder to find interesting cases that brought them out of the house and into the adrenaline inducing line of fire, sometimes literally the line of fire.

At first it seemed to work. John looked happier when he ran along after Sherlock and they laughed together when they got home talking late into the night.

Then suddenly it wasn't working any longer. John wasn't keeping up with Sherlock as they sprinted after thugs. He didn't complain at first but he looked drawn and kept sitting down a lot more. Sherlock was confused, he thought he had cured the limping but it kept returning at the most inopportune of moments.

Sherlock had tried not mentioning it, first when he realized that John really was limping, then in the middle of the day as they were following a suspect on a bike. John had stopped, telling Sherlock to go on ahead and Sherlock did. When he returned, having realized that the man he had been chasing was not the desired delivery man he found John sat on a fire escape looking miserable and rubbing at his leg with frustrated ferocity.

"John, what happened, why is your leg playing up like this?" Sherlock asked placing a hand gently on his friend's knee. "I don't know, it shouldn't hurt like this, it's just my addled brain making it up. And Sally calls _you_ a freak" John laughed slightly but there was little real humour in his voice just stinging sarcasm. "It feels like the damn shrapnel is still in there grinding away, why would I make something like that up. Stupid, stupid, stupid" his voice was strained and Sherlock could not help but feel rather frustrated. It was inconvenient to say the least.

He stretched a hand out to John who reluctantly took it. Sherlock could tell John was trying not to lean to heavily on him but this just resulted in the limp becoming more pronounced and Sherlock wrapped him more tightly taking his weight despite John's attempts to prevent it. "You should see your physiotherapist; my adrenaline cure is clearly not working any longer." Sherlock said quietly and John shrugged as well as he could with Sherlock's arm tightly wrapped around him "What's the point, it didn't help then, why would it help now"

When they returned home John slumped in his chair eyes fixed on his feet as he rubbed absentmindedly against his offending leg. Sherlock sat down opposite him and watched his flatmate in silence for several long minutes. "John?" he prompted but John was thousands of miles away in the sweltering heat of a war-torn country.

"John?" he tried again and this time John looked up at him with a strangely blank expression. "What is it Sherlock?" he asked. "Would you tell me what happened?" Sherlock asked in a gentle voice and John gave out a little laugh. "My leg's started hurting again, I tried to push trough the pain but it wasn't enough, I had to stop. I thought that was pretty obvious." He sounded sad and resigned.

"I mean when it first happened. I know it wasn't entirely psychosomatic, I've seen the scar, and I'd like to know what happened." John looked at him for a second before answering. I was hit by shrapnel from an exploding car. I was lucky, it didn't hit anything major but it went deep, nicked the bone, it hurt like hell and I was on crutches for three months before they would let me back in the hospital to work again." John's description was entirely matter of fact and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Why was it traumatic" he asked and John gave him a bewildered look. "Were you not listening to me Sherlock? Car bomb, shrapnel in my leg, three months of painful recovery, most people would call that traumatic." There was frustration in John's voice but also something else that Sherlock could not quite identify. "You're not most people John. Now are you going to tell me the whole story or do I have to try to deduce it?" Sherlock said patiently but firmly.

A dense silence settled over the room and Sherlock began to think that John really wasn't going to tell him when the doctor heaved a sigh and staring out the window started to speak.

"It was my first tour in Afghanistan. I'd barely even arrived yet and I was still doing training at a hospital in Kandahar. There was a threat against the hospital and we were told to evacuate as many of the patients as possible. Other hospitals were sending ambulances and we were carting the patients down to be taken by these or other cars brought in to help with the evacuation to the surrounding medical facilities. I was scared out of my mind and felt useless so I tried to take initiative. There was a lack of wheelchairs to move the patients so I took this young girl and carried her out to the waiting ambulances. She only had a broken leg so she was easy to move. I had almost reached one of the ambulances when a car to our right blew up sending us to the ground…."

John grew silent and to his horror Sherlock saw tears rise to his eyes although they did not spill over. "I landed on her…" John's breath hitched "… I cracked her skull open against the pavement as I fell on her. She cushioned my landing possibly saving my life but she died in my arms. She had a broken leg, and I tried to play the hero and it killed her"

Silence fell again as John collected himself and Sherlock tried to find useful words to say, aware that his lack of sentiment was currently a disadvantage when trying to help John, it prevented him from fully understanding. Eventually John continued "They put me in the ambulance instead of her, they left her there on the pavement…" John grew silent and did not speak again. They just sat there in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

After that night and the abandoned chase John avoided as many of Sherlock's excursions as possible and Sherlock didn't like it. He was used to John by his side, the perfect sounding board for deductions and John's resistance to come was annoying. He did however come with Sherlock when there was no running or fighting likely to be involved.

This was why he was limping along at Sherlock's side as they entered New Scotland Yard one morning on the way to a meeting with Lestrade. Just as they entered a young man came stumbling through the doors heading for the stairs, he was bleeding and didn't look to steady.

John was at his side faster than Sherlock had seen him move in months. "I'm a doctor, let me help" He said reaching out to steady the man. "Just help me upstairs, there's a first aid kit in the office" he received in return and the bulky young detective unceremoniously slung his arm over John's shoulder. John was used to taking orders and wrapped an arm around him steadying him as they headed toward the stairs.

"We'll be late" Sherlock complained and John sent him a scathing glare as they started up the stairs. Then everything happened very fast, they were only a few steps up when the man groaned and placed his full weight on John who let out a strangled yelp as his leg gave way under him. They both fell and John twisted to protect the injured man from hitting the stairs but was only partially successful as they both crumpled in a heap.

Sherlock took two large steps toward them and pulled the moaning cursing man off of his flatmate. "John, are you alright?" he asked crouching beside him. John didn't answer, focusing instead of breathing as pain coursed through him.

"Fucking hell, you offer to help and then you drop me, you twat" the young nameless man spat as he twisted to sit up. John did not do the same, he lay back against the stairs face ashen, eyes closed whispering "Sorry, sorry, didn't think" His voice hitched slightly on the last word and Sherlock knew the pain had to be bad for John to sound so strained. "Shut up." Sherlock snapped at the man's accusing remark as he placed a hand carefully on John's hip, not wanting to touch the actual leg for fear of causing John more pain.

"John look at me, open your eyes." He instructed and John complied. Unwilling to remain sprawled on the steps now that his eyes were open he struggled to sit up and a shiver ran through him, reverberating through Sherlock's hand. "I'm sorry mate." He said again to the young man and this time his voice was a little stronger. However colour had not returned to his face and the man who had inadvertently caused the fall shifted awkwardly as he returned the look. "Are you alright?" he asked no longer sounding angry which in and of itself did nothing to placate Sherlock's ire toward him. "Of course he's not alright" Sherlock spat out furiously but John just shook his head a little and when he opened his mouth to speak it was to Sherlock and not the injured officer.

"I'll be alright Sherlock. Could you help him upstairs and then come back for me? I need a minute before I can stand up and I'll probably need your help to get upstairs." Sherlock looked at him in bewilderment. "No!" he stated firmly and John sighed. "Please Sherlock for me." John pleaded and he saw Sherlock relenting in small increments. "Fine, but he can find someone else to patch him up, I'll be right back" Sherlock said under his breath before helping John shift slightly so that he could lean his back against the wall.

He was still sitting there when Sherlock returned ten minutes later, pounding down the stairs. "Help me up so we can go see Lestrade then, he'll be wondering where we got to." John forced a cheerful tone into his voice but it did not work on Sherlock. He sat down opposite John on the stairs looking intently at his flatmate. "I should take you home?" it was a question and not a statement and John smiled at his uncertainty in the face of emotions and manners.

"I'll be ok now, it's much better, if you could just give me a hand up to Lestrade's office, I'll sit and rest while you deduce and be right as rain again after." John reassured. Sherlock was not convinced by John's display of cheerful reassurances but he none the less helped him to stand and wraped an arm around him to support him up to the homicide department where Lestrade was eagerly awaiting their arrival.

Lestrade looked concerned at the appearance of Sherlock supporting his flatmate into the office but his questions were brushed off by an embarrassed John who slumped in a chair with assurances that he was fine and curses over his damn psychosomatic leg. An hour later, with the case solved John was quite capable of exiting under his own steam but he was aware of Sherlock hovering close by his side and he made himself a promise to make an appointment with a physiotherapist the next day, just so that he could at least say that he had tried everything.


	3. Chapter 3

It was just over a week later when Sherlock returned home from Bart's in the early afternoon with a new selection of samples for analysis. It had been a good day, Molly had been very generous and he felt that the cold case he was currently examining had every chance of getting solved in the immanent future.

He hadn't seen John all day since John had disappeared off to work in the morning while Sherlock had been in the shower but maybe he would want to help that evening. Sherlock knew that he had no shift tomorrow so he didn't have to get to bed early.

Yes a very good day, he felt generous enough to decide he would allow John to cook them dinner before embarking on the case.

It was only three o clock so Sherlock expected to have plenty of time to initiate his experiments before John came home. Therefore it was a great surprise when he entered the flat to find John's coat hanging just inside the door.

Sherlock hung up his phone and swirled around to look for his flatmate. "Why are you home so early, no more sick people in London?" he joked as he turned to find John curled up in his chair. That was odd, John did not curl up, he sat properly with his feet on the floor and his back straight, Sherlock was the one who curled and sprawled all over furniture.

Still there was no mistaking it, John was curled up with his feet pulled up on the seat and his knees tight to his chest, and he was drinking whisky. John didn't drink, well, not at three o clock in the afternoon at least.

Sherlock began deducing, the hour of day meant either he had been sent home or he had requested to go home because his shift did not end until four o clock and then he had to get back to the flat.

The Drinking surely meant either celebrating or trying to forget something, and well the curling up was just odd, Sherlock curled up when he was thinking or sulking but John did neither of those things, it was simply an anomaly, and almost certainly something emotional that went above, or maybe that should be below, Sherlock's intellect.

Conclusion, something had happened at the surgery and now John was either very happy or very unhappy. Judging by the fact that he did not respond to Sherlock's question the second seemed more likely, happy people seemed prone to want to engage in conversation while sad people did not, that was simple statistics.

"What's happened John?" Sherlock asked and moved around to sit in his own chair, depositing the specimens on the coffee table on the way.

There was a long silence while John stared at the bag on the table and Sherlock stared at John. Then John's eyes returned to the glass in his hand and he nodded slowly and began a slow and hesitant monologue.

"I have something to tell you"… Sherlock stayed silent expecting him to continue but it was a while before John got the words together. "It's going to mean that I will have to leave and I don't blame you if you're angry. " Sherlock felt cold and he pulled his own knees up, unconsciously mirroring the stance of his flatmate.

"I'm not going to be any good for you, at least for a while, maybe forever and I'm really sorry. I wanted to give you a useful colleague and instead I've ended up saddling you with a useless cripple." Having said that he fell silent for a second and sipped at his drink and Sherlock took advantage of his silence. "You're not useless and we will find a cure for your leg, we did before" Sherlock said firmly.

John downed the rest of his glass in one swift gulp and winced as it burned his throat. "We can't, not like that, you can't, it's not psychosomatic this time… Sherlock I have cancer." A deep silence fell over the room as Sherlock contemplated this fact.

"What kind? Where? Are you sure?" Sherlock's questions were unusually inarticulate for the wellspoken man and John looked up at him again but fixed his eyes on a point on Sherlock's chest rather than on his eyes as he answered "In my leg of course, in the bone, and yes of course I'm sure. I wouldn't have told you otherwise. They took a biopsy"

Sherlock stayed silent again for what seemed a small eternity his mind whirling with remnants of strange medical facts that he had once known but had deleted after John moved in thinking he didn't need them. "How bad? What will they do?" he said finally.

John sighed but forced himself to be factual and act like a doctor, he had told patients these kinds of things before, and patient's friends and family as well, he knew how to do this. Be factual, optimistic, brief. "There will be surgery to remove the tumour, and that could be it but often chemotherapy is needed afterwards. The recovery will be fairly lengthy but the statistics are good there is almost a 70% survival rate for bone cancer. That is better than for most kinds of cancer. It could be much worse."

Again that silence and John could not bare to look at Sherlock who sat stock still and silent in his chair.

Sherlock in return was weighing words in that exact way that he did, 'surgery' not good, 'tumour' not good, 'could be' inaccurate and imprecise, 'lengthy recovery' not good.

For every 'not good' Sherlock felt his stomach clench a little tighter, he hated it, although he would never allow himself to admit it, every time he did something that made John utter those two little words.

Then he did the math's 'almost 70% survival rate=more than 30% chance of loosing John, that was another 30% not good and he really had lost track of how many not good's that made because John was staring at him now, looking at him properly with sad worried eyes.

It was broken bones and stomach flu all rolled into one, his inside seemed to want to twist and turn inside out and Sherlock bolted, ran past John and retched into the kitchen sink. His stomach was empty, he hadn't eaten all day and yet he managed to spit vile bile into the sink making noises that he felt truly ashamed of.

Then John was at his side, rubbing his back and it felt good, but John was going to be 30% gone so what did that make this. Sherlock had nothing more in his stomach to expel so even though it twisted and turned he rinsed his mouth and turned around.

As he did that John sat down heavily in one of the chairs, he did that a lot these days, the sitting down. "I'm sorry Sherlock" and Sherlock just stared.

"I don't know why I did that…" Sherlock said with a frown on his face which was returned by the slightest of smiles from John. "I do Sherlock" John said, still smiling and Sherlock still frowned "Why?" he demanded and John's smile faded away "It's a perfectly normal reaction to being told that your friend might be dying."

"I won't let you" Sherlock stated angrily.

"You may not have a choice, you can't fix everything Sherlock" John's voice was tired but now he was at least looking at Sherlock as he spoke.

"No, you're not allowed, I need you" Sherlock stated and before John had a chance to respond he pushed past into the living room, experiments entirely forgotten, and sat down with his entire mind focused on his laptop.

John watched him for a moment as he read something but when his throat started to feel thick as he watched his flatmate not knowing if he was angry with him or intensely sorry for him, he stood up.

"I'm going to bed" he said and even though Sherlock did not look up from the screen he did respond.

"It's not even half past three" he said logically and John exploded "I'm exhausted, I hurt all the time, I'm running a fever and fuck it I have cancer, I'm allowed to." Then he picked up the whiskey bottle and stormed, as much as he could with the impediment of only a semi functioning leg and two glasses of whiskey on top of painkillers, up the stairs and into his room.


	4. Chapter 4

**This is the chapter that served as a spark for the whole story, I loved writing Mycroft so much in this episode I decided it deserved a proper story, he will be making more appearances before this story ends I'm sure. Please let me know what you think.**

Three hours later and Sherlock had skimmed through all of John's medical texts on cancer and innumerable articles online and he could still not decide on a perfect cause of action. He was feeling jumpy like he needed a fix and he knew John really would not like that so he did the dreaded thing, he texted his brother.

I need your help to find the world's best oncologist, fast. SH

What happened, do you feel ill? MH

Of course not stop hovering. SH

John has cancer SH

I can't figure out what to do SH

Your punctuation is slipping, I'm coming over. MH

Punctuation is boring, just advice re oncologist SH

Punctuation is indicative. I will advise you when I get there. Where is John? MH

Locked in his room. SH

He left SH

There were no more texts after that but ten minutes later Mycroft came stomping up the stairs with his umbrella as always clicking a rhythm beside him. How he had managed to open the door Sherlock didn't know until he heard Mrs Hudson's steps on the stairs along with his brother and remembered that he had disabled the alarm again.

That at least meant that he didn't have to get up and let Mycroft in Mrs Hudson would do that and so he remained rooted to his chair, engrossed in his research. He has already looked into all the details of different kinds of bone cancer and their risks and problems that John had left out of his explanation. Now he is researching the possibility of the transfer of psychosomatic ailments between individuals.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice was a little higher than usual as he walked into the room and straight over to where Sherlock was sitting by the window. "What are you doing Sherlock?" Mycroft asked in his usual detached voice but there was a hint of sternness there as well.

"I'm researching if it is possible for John's psychosomatic pain to transfer to my chest as a result of his actual cancerous illness. I have found no precedent so far" Sherlock states with his eyes still fixed on the screen.

Mycroft sat down opposite him and leaned his umbrella against the table. "Sherlock, stop it." He ordered. "You are both hurting, because he might die and that has you both scared and upset, it is not hard to understand…" Mycroft hesitated for a second… "Ah, well yes, I know it is for you but… John's probably in pain, and he's scared, that makes you scared because you might loosed him but you have to put that aside because he needs you."

Sherlock shook his head. "Emotional drivel, you don't believe in sentiment, and I don't get scared, or upset, at least not without chemical induction." Sherlock's voice was more convincing than Mycroft had really expected, but then he was Sherlock.

"That is not true, I never said I didn't believe in sentiment, merely that it isn't an advantage because it means people get hurt, hearts are broken. I believe I also told you it happens to everyone"

Mycroft could see Sherlock replaying this thought in his head and still he pushed forward because he felt that getting his brothers head into focus was paramount since his heart clearly was not.

"And you do get scared and upset… remember when you were four and you came home from school crying and proclaiming that you would never go back because the teachers were stupid because they wouldn't let you play with the chemistry equipment and the kids were cruel because they called you a freak because you were smarter than them and why had I always told you that you were stupid. I'm not sure who you were upset with, me, the kids or the teachers or our parents for putting you there in the first place but you were upset." Mycroft looked at his brother hesitantly.

"I was four years old" was Sherlock's only answer.

"Do I need to say more than Redbeard, you were ten then" Mycroft felt only the teeniest bit of guilt for bringing it up.

"Yes I was ten, and I may have been angry at myself for making a mistake and letting him play in the road but I wasn't upset. It was mummy who wanted to bury him in the back garden, not me" Sherlock retorted and there was something slightly petulant in his voice, actually reminiscent of his own ten year old self.

"You cried for weeks" Mycroft's voice was soft now.

"No I didn't" Sherlock snapped sounding angry now.

"Yes you did, just as you did when you were fifteen and you came home limping with a bruised cheek and you refused to tell any of us what had happened…"

"I didn't, Mycroft stop making things up." Sherlock shouted but there was a hint of panic in his voice that was so very unusual in the great detective.

"Sherlock, you delete it…" Mycroft sounded tired and not quite like himself as he stared across the table at his petulant brother. "Whenever something horrible happens to you, you delete it. Don't delete John Watson, he deserves better. You deserve better."

Sherlock shook his head vehemently making his long curls slap across his forehead, "I would never delete John, how can you even say that?" There was fury in his voice instead of petulance now.

In a rare moment of genuine sentiment which only happened with a very few people Mycroft felt genuinely guilty when he pulled his brother's heartstrings like those of a marionette puppet.

"Because you are down here researching excuses for your own pain while he is locked in his bedroom aggravating his illness by drinking himself into a stupor which will make his condition worse whether or not he is in fact taking pain medication which might combine with the alcohol to kill him or not. I know you care, but you are too self-absorbed to understand that if it was you who were sick John would be up there with you. He would hold your hand and feed you tea and do all the things that normal humans do, but more than anything he would make sure you didn't drink yourself to death or spent the whole night crying because your best friend prefers to do research on his computer instead of taking care of you."

Mycroft didn't know if he had gone too far. His heart was beating hard in his chest and he knew that in this moment when he was supposed to take care of two of the most important men in his life he had let sentiment get the better of him and he had rambled in anger.

When he looked at his brother, properly looked again, Sherlock had tears in his eyes, actual tears and Mycroft forced himself to retain his cool and retrace his steps to make things better again.

"I will make tea, you go and pick the lock, you are better at that than me." It was offered as an unspoken apology but he didn't know if Sherlock understood or cared and he couldn't help himself when he added "…and for gods sake get the alcohol away from him." Before he turned toward the kitchen to find the kettle and the teabags. He had never made tea in this kitchen before, John always did it when he came over, this was going to be a long night.


End file.
